


In the Darkest of Nights

by Luthien17



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Aramis joins the war, Brotherhood, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-07 21:49:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14680170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien17/pseuds/Luthien17
Summary: After the defeat of Rochefort, and a war breaking out between France and Spain, Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan are sent to the front to prove their skills on the battlefield. After a long night, they once again realize that their faith in one another is their greatest strength.





	1. Aramis

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everybody. I've just joined this site, but I started publishing on ff.net a couple of months ago. A friend of mine convinced me that I could give this site a try too, so I'm starting out with publishing my older works on here as well. Meaning those of you who also read on ff.net might know this story already. I'm new, so I'm still figuring everything out. Bear with me.
> 
> Every chapter from a different point of view - four chapters in total. English is not my first language. Enjoy.

The thundering of the cannons didn’t come to an end. They’ve been sitting this out for hours, and they could do nothing about it.  
They were somewhat pushed into the corner. The terrain on which they were located was hilly, and torn apart by gunfire by now. The soldiers of the regiment, as well as those of the King himself, had entrenched themselves in pits and behind hills, no one dared to lift his head to check.  
The screams of the men being hit by the gunfire hung in the air, but it was a noise Aramis had learnt to blend out of his thoughts. Even if every muscle in his body screamed that he should help the men, heal their wounds or even just be a consoling presence in their last moments, he was aware that he could do nothing but sit this out and wait for a fire pause.

He had been active in the service of France almost all of his life, he knew the dangers of war, and the heat of the battle. But it didn’t get any easier.  
The worst thing was the absolute darkness. Even though occasionally, the fire of the cannons threw light flashes over the sky, it stayed a black, starless night. Not even the moon granted them a grain of his light.

Aramis lay in a pit next to d’Artagnan, a few lengths beside them, Porthos and Athos endured the fire. The young man to Aramis’ side had his eyes clenched tightly, in total capitulation to the gunfire. 

Aramis’ gaze landed on Athos, whose eyes flashed through the darkness in his direction. As captain of the musketeers, he had the command, but Aramis really couldn’t blame his friend when he returned the gaze, completely empty and clueless. Any order he could give now would lead to a senseless sacrificial massacre, without doubt. He was powerless, until the cannons stopped. 

So Aramis did the only thing that could help him now. His gloved fingers palpated his uniform, and he fished the heavy, golden crucifix out of the folds of his shirt and clasped it tightly with both hands. Apart from the symbolic meaning of such a pendant, this ornate, golden cross also had personal significance for him. Even though he was miles away from Paris, the pendant radiated a warmth he usually only felt in the presence of the Queen or his son, and their faces were so clear in his head as if he’d seen them yesterday. 

He took a deep breath before he started to say his prayers. He noticed d’Artagnan briefly looking up to him, but his young friend had enough respect for Aramis’ faith that he didn’t comment on anything.

So he prayed. He begged God for strength, prayed for a good outcome of this night. That it would go as painless as possible for everyone.  
He was a soldier, he found strength and energy in combat and on the battlefield against France’s enemies, but he was no monster. Nobody wished for the suffering of another innocent, no one, whether he was French or Spanish, deserved that, and Aramis could say that he never felt any satisfaction in killing those men. Except perhaps Rochefort, but even with the count, Aramis’ spiritual side had ordered him to show mercy.

And he prayed for his brothers, especially his closest friends. Porthos, Athos and d’Artagnan were all excellent fighters, but that didn’t make them invincible. God beware something was to happen to one of them, and he hoped for strength for them, as well as for himself.

The next minute, he continued to pray, murmured the old-established words of the catholic prayer, and finally concluded with an “Amen!” before he brought the crucifix to his lips briefly.

Seconds later, a cannon ball crashed into the ground only a few meters away, tearing the bushes and the earth apart so that dirt and rocks flew in all directions.

“Amen,” d’Artagnan echoed softly next to him, and Aramis turned a little surprised to his friend. D’Artagnan only pressed his lips together in despair and gave him a slap on the shoulder. This little gesture was enough to show that he was doing okay. As good as one could be on the battlefield.

If only they had a little light given by nature. But the moon and the stars remained clouded, and the screams and the bang that thundered through the night seemed even more menacing.

Aramis leaned his head back against the dirt and narrowed his eyes. How could it have come so far?

Their own cannons were absolutely useless in this area. Since they had found themselves in an inconceivably hilly landscape, their guns had no firm hold and above all no clear aim. But even the enemy cannons would come to the point where they could not fire any more, and they all waited for this moment. That they could change their positions and start a counter-attack if necessary.

The moments dragged on for what it felt like half an eternity. Whenever a cannon hit too close to them, they flinched violently, hoping that none of them would be hit.  
Aramis felt the restlessness of d'Artagnan beside him. It was no longer d'Artagnan's first battle, which had taken place months ago, but the man from the Gascony had never been a man of inactivity, and Aramis had already had to take him back twice to his security pit as his brother-in-arms had tried to escape from his cover to catch a glimpse.

With a deafening crash, a cannonball struck enormously close to Aramis and d'Artagnan. Aramis put a hand over his head in a reflex-like manner, and rolled to the side, but the force of the impact threw him in d'Artagnan's direction, and covered the two with a thin layer of earth which had loosened from the dusty ground.  
Aramis coughed thanks to the dust and wiped as much dirt from his uniform as he could manage without revealing himself to the gunfire. He turned his head briefly to see if d'Artagnan was doing well, but his comrade merely looked back, and signaled that he was doing okay.

And finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the bang died down. And there was not another one. By the lack of noise of the cannons, however, the screams of the wounded men sounded more clearly through the air.

Aramis knew they had to act now. That’s why he looked at Athos. Their leader had already half raised out of the ditch and shouted instructions.

"Take the wounded to the camp. All the others, we have the opportunity to attack now! "

Athos glanced at his three closest friends.

“Aramis, Porthos, I want you to take half of the men and lead an attack on the Spanish Westside. D’Artagnan will accompany me to the other side, and we will try to take out their cannons.”

Porthos grabbed his commander’s shoulder. "Not a chance. We’re not separating.”

Athos scowled. “Does anyone here have a better plan?”

Porthos uncertainly bit on his lower lip, and d’Artagnan struck the ground in frustration.

“Very well, then,” Athos went on, and his features turned softer. “You can do this. I have fullest confidence in you.”

Aramis grabbed d’Artagnan by the neck and pulled him briefly into his arms. “You better come back in one piece,” the younger man murmured in his ear, with a threatening tone in his voice, and he patted his friend’s neck. Aramis managed a crooked grin.

“No worries. We have your back,” he answered with a slightly mocking tone, but the severity of their situation was evident in his face.  
Athos also made a step forward, and in a brief, but meaningful gesture, they said goodbye to one another for the moment. Aramis grabbed Athos by the forearm, and his brother-in-arms pulled him into a short hug. 

“See you,” Athos growled and then grabbed d’Artagnan by the shoulder to motivate him to leave with his captain.  
Aramis lifted his rapier up high to signal the men to come with him. Porthos was by his side, and together, they struck their way through the bushes and the mud up the slope into western direction. Aramis’ senses still were on high alert, prepared to run for cover if the cannon fire hit again, but it didn’t come. He felt the stares of the men in his back, who had to listen to him thanks to Athos, and he already tried to escape the responsibility in his mind.  
Once they finally stumbled up the path to more even terrain, a surprise awaited them. The ground was smoother there, though still adorned with trees, but in the moment Porthos and Aramis, who were forming the head of the group, pulled themselves up the last meter of the hill, they looked at the barrels of muskets being aimed at them.

“Down!” Porthos roared and he and Aramis threw themselves back on the sloping ground, knocking over two other musketeers. In the exact same moment, the muskets thundered through the night and pierced through the air, where Aramis and Porthos had been a second earlier. 

Porthos immediately drew his pistol from his belt, while Aramis and about half of the remaining men they had with them drew their arquebuses and prepared them. Right after a hail of bullets had torn the ground above them, Aramis gave the signal and they used the top of the slope to hold their weapons straight and returned fire. It didn’t matter to them that all they were able to hit were the legs of the enemy troops, at most. It prevented the Spaniards from reloading.  
As expected, the small group of enemies charged towards them with loud screaming as soon as they all arrived on even ground. Aramis was prepared and fired his pistol before pulling his parrying dagger and entering close combat. 

Porthos beside him roared like a tornado through the ranks of the enemies. With his broad sword and sheer manpower, he swept over the men and easily competed with three men at once.

Aramis parried the attack of an enemy by grabbing his sword arm and whirling it around before he kicked the man down the slope.  
Thanks to his sharp ears, he also heard the pulling of a sword behind his back, despite Porthos’ intimidating war screams. Without thinking twice, he stabbed backwards with the dagger in his left hand, and ducked just in time as the answer in form of an impressive sword thrust missed his head only by inches. However, his opponent’s stomach was unprotected, and Aramis finished his duel quickly and painlessly. 

When two men rushed forwards to launch an attack at Aramis, it was easy to parry their half-hearted attacks with one arm each. He had quickly disarmed the first attacker, while he kept the other one in check with his parrying dagger. As soon as the second attacker made an attempt for a presumably deadly blow, Aramis ducked behind the first opponent. Confusion and irritation was written all over his enemy’s face, and Aramis knocked the slightly stunned first man to the ground and skidded towards the remaining opponent in a skillful move, one he had perfected in training, below the usual sword level and he finished the duel with one swift move.

Frantically, he looked around, and his eyes fell with horror on Porthos, who was lying on the ground, the hands of stout man around his throat, the musketeer’s face distorted with exertion. Without further hesitation, Aramis tightened his grip around his dagger and made a huge leap towards them. With an angry scream, he dug the dagger deep into the shoulder of the attacker, who gasped in surprise and let go of Porthos. The attacker was put out of action with another heavy kick.  
After a brief inspection of the situation, Aramis was able to determine their victory over the Spaniards, and he signaled his men to search the others for ammunition if necessary. 

Grinning, he turned back to Porthos and held out a hand.

“If you didn’t have me, eh?” he joked and pulled his friend to his feet in a single movement. 

Porthos grimaced.

“Then I could’ve avoided a lot of trouble.”

He stared down at Aramis for a moment, before he started laughing, in which Aramis, despite the circumstances, joined in. As usual, he and Porthos were able to get down to earth and take some of the tension off their shoulders with a little bit of their everyday communication.  
Side by side, they looked up. They gazed through the trees at a more open field, where they knew the troops of the enemy were awaiting them and challenging the troops of King Louis XIII. to an open fight. 

The darkness, however, denied them any further insight, and Aramis fervently hoped the moon or the stars would break through the clouds, giving them the little light they needed to prepare their fight. The sky above them seemed empty. 

Aramis noticed how Porthos, to his right, was also vehemently weighing their options, and looking for the best opportunity to properly execute Athos’ orders.  
It was in that moment when the surface was suddenly bathed in faint, bluish light and Aramis looked up to the almost full moon, whose face emerged from behind a cloud and finally granted them light for the first time after hours of total darkness.

And now, they had insight into the troops of the enemy, along with the cannons at the southern end, which had kept them busy the last few hours.  
They knew what they had to do. And they knew they could to that. The enemy troops still seemed to be fixed at the point where they had lingered as a unit until just a few moments ago, and despite the noise they had made, the troops didn’t seem to suspect anything. 

Aramis guessed that Athos’ and d’Artagnan’s group probably made no less noise on the other side. Their group had chosen a route in which they could find cover in the ruins of a tiny, deserted village, in which they could find cover during the attack. 

A gasp not far from him made Aramis jump, and he whirled around to search for the source. All of his men were still standing, more or less, but the gurgling noise came from a man in a Spanish uniform, stretched out on the floor, his hands digging in the mud as he tried to hold on to something.  
Out of the corner of his eye, Aramis noticed Duval, a young musketeer cadet, raise his pistol and point it at the dying man.  
Gruffly, Aramis already wanted to make a step towards the cadet, but Porthos was faster and put a hand on the barrel of the gun and shook his head warningly.  
The cadet lowered the pistol.

Aramis took a deep breath before dropping on his knees next to the man, and taking the hand, that dug so lost and confused in the dirt, between his own. 

“Dios,” the man gasped and his eyes that were focused on Aramis were filled with fear and terror. His eyes wandered from Aramis’ shoulder plate with the royal fleur de lis back to the musketeer’s face.

“No tengas miedo,” Aramis whispered, stroking his hand reassuringly.

“Lucìa,” the man mumbled absently and gasped for air. “Mi Lucìa.”

Aramis pressed his lips together and grabbed the soldier firmly but gently by the neck, to show that there was no reason to be afraid. He was not alone, after all.  
The soldier seemed to understand that and Aramis could’ve sworn that a faint smile played on his lips before his eyes turned rigidly towards the sky. Aramis closed them and mumbled a short, silent prayer before straightening up again. 

He was sorry, but he had learned to accept scenes like this. And that scared him.

Looking around, he noticed the slightly puzzled look of Duval, who still kept a firm grip on his gun. Aramis stared at him through tangled locks of hair, answering the question the cadet apparently didn’t dare to ask.

“We are here to fight for France and the King, and to protect the families living in this country. Do you really think his intentions differ so much from ours?”

“You should always have respect, Duval!” Porthos added admonishingly and Aramis nodded thankfully. Duval’s jaw was tense, but he didn’t say anything and stared sheepishly at the ground.

Aramis turned away from him and stepped back to Porthos, who looked at the dark, open area in front of them. He felt Porthos’ elbow in his side and looked up at his friend while reloading his weapon.

“Maybe you should’ve stayed at the monastery.”

Aramis raised a questioning eyebrow, a little shaken by the statement. Was Porthos trying to say he didn’t want him here? Just as Aramis felt the anger rising in him, he noticed an amused grin on Porthos’ face. 

“You know. Then I wouldn’t have to feel obliged to save your ass all the time. You would’ve had a safer life there.”

Aramis glared at him, totally unimpressed.

“I think this here was more of a wakening call for you, my friend,” he commented dryly with a harsh, sarcastic tone in his voice. “And besides, who would take care of you when I’m not here?” He smirked. 

“Well, Athos and d’Artagnan are still here…,” Porthos said, looking to the floor. 

Aramis laughed dryly, which ended up more in a clearing of his throat. 

“Athos has plenty to do to keep the impetuous d’Artagnan under control. I think the good boy is already annoying our dear Athos.”

Porthos grimaced and gave a slight shrug. “Do you want me to prove my skills elsewhere?” Aramis asked a little sharper than intended and a little offended by the attitude shown towards him by his closest friend.

“No, no, I…” the big man nervously stuttered. “Well, what I’m trying to say is thank you.”

Now it was Aramis’ turn to be surprised.

“Thanks for what?”

“That you’re here. And that you’re watching my back.”

Porthos has never been a man of big words, so Aramis took some tension out of the air in patting his friend’s shoulder in response. “Don’t thank me yet. We can celebrate and have a toast to everything when we’re still in one piece tomorrow.”

Porthos chuckled in agreement and granted Aramis a grin before his gaze wandered from the enemy to his own men. “What do you say? Athos expects us to unleash hell upon them.”

Aramis nodded and turned to face the other men, fully aware that everyone was looking at him. 

“And we don’t want to disappoint our captain, right?”

The men nodded eagerly and drew their weapons.

Aramis winked at Porthos and leaned over to him.

“Do you know what I like about Athos?” Aramis asked amused. Porthos raised an eyebrow.

“You mean apart from his incredible charm and sense of tact?”

Aramis grinned at this sarcastic note.

“I was thinking about his ability to scare people with the power of a single look. None of these men will question the plan if they’d summon the captain’s wrath.”

Porthos snorted in agreement and his gaze returned to the enemy’s troops. “Wise men.”

Aramis held his reloaded weapon firmly in his hand, the metal of his rapier clattering reassuringly against his leg with each step. “Let’s go.”


	2. D'Artagnan

D’Artagnan followed Athos up the slope. They headed in the exact opposite direction as Aramis and Porthos. Now that he was finally able to act again, he felt a lot better. Pushed into the corner in the pits of the earth, under constant fire, had driven him to the brink of madness.

Although the presence of Aramis beside him and Porthos and Athos in sight had had a calming effect on him, he had once again realized that patience wasn’t his strength. He had been forced to surrender helplessly to the cannon fire, and if it hadn’t been for Aramis pulling him back into the pit several times, he would probably have ended up as cannon fodder.

It had been a true salvation when the cannons finally fell silent. The wounded had been brought to their camp not far from here and Athos had given the orders.  
If they wanted to survive this, they had to destroy the enemy’s cannons. Apparently, Athos’ plan seemed to be to circumvent them a little, and to confuse them with the division of the French troops, and to finally use the surprise effect to destroy the Spanish artillery. 

D’Artagnan for sure had his doubts, but his faith in Athos was unshakeable. And if he was honest, he didn’t have a better plan, therefore, what were they supposed to do. When they almost finished their way, they saw a patrol, slowly cleaving their way through the edge of the forest. The Spaniards used their swords to beat the scrub out of their way. 

Athos in front of d’Artagnan raised a hand and signaled his men to stop. D’Artagnan was the only one who still moved, catching up with Athos so he was within earshot. 

He saw Athos’ eyes move hectically over the area, even though his expression was unreadable. He weighed his options. The patrol had not yet discovered them in the dark, but they were quietly talking in Spanish, apparently not paying attention.

“We could surprise them from behind,” d’Artagnan said, his voice no more than a faint breeze getting lost in the wind. 

Athos merely shrugged his shoulders and already raised a hand to give signals when they all suddenly flinched violently as shots echoed across the open area. The Spanish patrol also looked up for a second, but didn’t seem to care any further. One seemed to make a derogatory remark about something. Not that d’Artagnan was able to speak Spanish, but over the last few months, he had been able to catch a little here and there. 

He noticed Athos turning his head and pointing into the direction of the sound.

“Aramis and Porthos!” the captain hissed unnecessarily and searched for d’Artagnan’s gaze. 

D’Artagnan knew exactly what their leader had in mind. They had to outbid the battle noise and make sure the main troops in the open field near the edge of the forest couldn’t be sure where exactly the noises where coming from, and therefore where exactly the French troops were.  
Athos raised an eyebrow as if to ask d’Artagnan for approval. 

The man from Gascony raised his sword and with a loud battle cry, he and the men charged towards the patrol, which turned towards them totally unprepared.  
Athos and d’Artagnan pulled their pistols from their belts and plunged into battle. After using their shots, both drew their parrying dagger and held against the attacks being launched at them. 

D’Artagnan prevented one of the young musketeer cadets from being impaled by a sword, and then he quickly ducked behind a rotten tree trunk as he caught sight of the arquebus aimed at him the very last moment. The ball missed him a lot further than he had expected.

The battle was decided very fast. The Spaniards definitely had been surprised, and their small group of ten men didn’t stand a chance against the twenty-five Athos had with him. When silence fell over them again, d’Artagnan noticed that there were no more noises coming from the other side of the forest. Whatever had provoked the fight there, it was over. 

D’Artagnan moved towards the last tree at the edge of this forest to have a good view of the open meadows. A few abandoned houses separated them from the enemy’s troops. 

The moonlight finally emerged from behind the clouds and dipped the surface into a silvery light. Enough light for them to roughly assess the situation. 

“They are moving…,” Athos murmured suddenly, and he narrowed his eyes to see better what was going on.

“But they are not turning in our direction,” d’Artagnan threw in softly, pointing at the Spaniards. “They are still concentrating on the woodland from earlier.”  
He felt Athos’ stares piercing him from the side.

“Do you have a suggestion? One that’s not completely thoughtless and instinctive?” The captain’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“You mean like an open attack?”

“Exactly.”

“Then no.”

Athos sighed and ran a hand over his face. 

“We could try to sneak into the houses up there. If we can get there undetected, we can wait until Aramis and Porthos make their move and then, in the chaos, we can put out their cannons.”

D’Artagnan frowned and crouched next to Athos.

“What if they have guards in these houses? Or even worse, supplies? You know; something like gunpowder.”

Athos’ mouth twitched. “It’s a risk we’ll have to take.”

“Very comforting.”

“Was not my intention.”

D’Artagnan glanced at Athos for a moment, and in the eyes of the musketeer’s captain, he could tell no matter what he said, the decision was made. Athos finally gave the orders. And if d’Artagnan was honest, the plan didn’t sound too bad.

Athos gave the equivalent signals with his hand and d’Artagnan heard the men behind them move quietly. Slowly and carefully, they moved out of the cover of the trees and stepped on the leafy, slightly mudded ground as quietly as they could. They only had to go unnoticed until they reached the abandoned houses. There, they could try to come up with a proper plan to put the cannons out of action.

D’Artagnan gripped the handle of his sword tightly to keep it from making too much noise by clanging against his belt or legs. He also ducked his head, as if he could protect himself against the faint moonlight, and they finally made it to the first building.

Athos was the first to arrive at the heavy, wooden door and checked carefully whether it was locked. With a slightly surprised look on his face, he turned to d’Artagnan and pushed the door open with ease. He stepped in and stopped at the door, holding it open with his foot. He hastily gestured d’Artagnan to enter, and the other men followed the musketeer. It was an abandoned house, therefore most of the things were gone. D’Artagnan assumed the family had taken all when they had fled. A few slightly moldy fruits were scattered on the floor as if someone left in a hurry. 

“Close the windows!” d’Artagnan whispered as softly as he could and the men obeyed him, even though he was not their captain. The position held by Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan in Athos’ eyes was no secret at the garrison, and the men, musketeer or not, respected that.  
They held their heads down and hurriedly closed the windows. The Spanish troops now actually stood with their shoulders to them, which means the houses were on their left side. But they seemed to be fixed at something else, and they paid no attention to the houses.

At least that’s what d’Artagnan thought.

He had discovered the staircase in the corner of the room, a small and very narrow one that presumably led to the cellar. D’Artagnan knew how long the Spaniards had been in this area and wanted to be safe.

Just as he reached the landing, voices sounded from the basement.

“Apresúrate. Los otros esperan!”

Every man in the room froze, and d’Artagnan unnecessarily brought a finger to his lips, signaling them to be quiet before he cautiously put a foot on the first step.  
To his horror, it creaked.

He squinted around the corner and immediately met the Spaniard’s gaze, who stared at him in surprise and already took in the air to yell a warning. D’Artagnan firmly grabbed the railing on both sides and gathered some force before he kicked the man in the stomach with both legs.  
The warning was stifled when the man fell out of d’Artagnan’s field of vision because he lost his balance. But the stairs didn’t go down very far. D’Artagnan quickly had a safe stand and threw his dagger nimbly and safely at the guard. With a silent cry of pain, the man went to the floor.

Just as d’Artagnan reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard the second man even before he saw him.

“Qué pasa?”

He shut up the moment he spotted d’Artagnan and he angrily reached for his sword, which he let down at the musketeer at tremendous speed. D’Artagnan swerved sideways and kicked the man, who staggered against the basement’s walls. 

“Bastardo francese!” he gasped and bared his teeth. 

D’Artagnan pulled off an offended face and challenged his opponent with a teasing grin and a wave of his hand.

The Spaniard snorted furiously and launched another attack. D’Artagnan parried the blow with ease and grabbed his opponent by the sword arm, which he then wrenched so hard that the man dropped his sword. Before a single scream of pain could escape the man’s throat, the man from Gascony knocked him unconscious with a single strike with the sword.

For a second, he stood there, taking deep breaths before he looked into the dimly lit cellar. His jaw dropped.

“Everything alright down there?” Athos’ voice sounded from upstairs. When he received no answer, impatient footsteps could be heard, but d’Artagnan’s gaze could not be diverted from the cellar.

“D’Artagnan!” Athos asked again, before entering the stairs himself.

“Athos?” d’Artagnan replied in a monotone voice. “You should have a look at this.”

Athos hurried down the steps, one hand on the hilt of his sword, as usual.

“D’Artagnan, what the…” He stopped as he followed his friend’s gaze. “Oh.”

“Yup.”

“That could indeed lead to a change of plan.”

“I told you so.”

Athos glared at him from the side.

“And I said it’s a risk we have to take.”

D’Artagnan swallowed hard.

“Athos, our men are standing over a dozen boxes of gunpowder!” He realized that he said our men, not your men, but Athos didn’t even notice. He just lifted a placating hand. “Calm down. Do you see a fuse or anything like that?”

D’Artagnan shook his head.

“Because these are their supplies, d’Artagnan. Not everything is a trap.”

The younger man growled sullenly, while Athos straightened up again.

“I’m going to let some men search the basement. To make sure there aren’t any accesses from other sides or other houses. Gérard, Nicourt! You are needed down here!”

The last part he shouted carefully up the stairs, and above, the heads of said men appeared as they hurried to comply with their captain’s orders. Instead of turning directly to search the cellar, Gérard walked up to Athos, his face pale.

“From which direction did you say do the other men launch their attack again, Captain?”

Athos narrowed his eyes. “Aramis and Porthos are launching an attack from the west, and on the western flank of the Spanish troops.”

Gérard swallowed nervously. “Then you should go upstairs, Captain. There’s something you need to see.”

Athos glared at the musketeer recruits for a second, while d’Artagnan already hurried to get up the stairs. He felt Athos not too far behind him.

“What’s going on?” Athos demanded to know as soon as they were back in the main room of the house.

“The troops, Sir. They’re turning west.”

Athos shook his head.

“Aramis and Porthos are attacking from there; of course they will be noticed sooner or later.”

One of the musketeers, standing outside in a half-open door, shook his head and beckoned Athos and d’Artagnan over. The two complied and d’Artagnan knelt down outside behind the corner of the house, Athos close to him. 

“The cannons. They are facing west. They expect the attack,” the musketeer explained uneasily. 

These words hit d’Artagnan like the cannonballs in the forest less than an hour ago. They were prepared. And definitely not because of the battle noise from earlier. In this area, on this surface, it was impossible to determine where exactly the sounds are coming from. How did the Spaniards get the information? They seemed to know the exact location of Porthos, Aramis and their men. 

“I thought they were going south,” Athos hissed, trying to hide the horror in his voice.

The musketeer nodded. “It happened abruptly, without any warning signs. As if they knew it, as if they’ve foreseen every step of us.”

Athos’ jaw muscles tensed visibly.

“Maybe they missed a scout,” he guessed.

D’Artagnan drew in a sharp breath.

“And this scout was able to tell them our entire plan and locations within such a short time? No, that can only…” He was interrupted when the first cannons were being fired. He had experienced enough cannon fire over the past few months. He had seen the destructive power of these war machines, and he had been lucky every time. The bang was far away, but in d’Artagnan’s ears, it sounded as if he was standing right next to it. He was about to leap out of cover out of reflex, but Athos hastily grabbed his shoulder and pushed him against the wall.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not letting them run into their own doom. I sent them there!” D’Artagnan was angry and desperate at the same time.

“No, d’Artagnan, I did!” Athos shouted at him and prevented the younger man from another attempt to escape. Although Athos’ voice was controlled, d’Artagnan knew him well enough to detect the slight hint of fear and guilt. 

D’Artagnan desperately grabbed Athos by the collar, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the musketeer in the doorway turning away as he witnessed someone turn against their commander’s authority. 

“I cannot leave them there alone,” d’Artagnan pleaded and tried to jump to his feet again. 

“If you rush into battle like this, you’ll never get out of there alive.”

“I don’t care!” d’Artagnan replied angrily, his eyes fixed on the fray. Now it was Athos who grabbed his friend by the collar and forced him to look at him. 

“And what do you expect me to tell Constance?” Athos hissed. “You’re not doing this only for us, for the King or for France!”

D’Artagnan swallowed.

“You’re also doing this for her. You haven’t fought for her for so long to give it up now. She’s worth it. Aramis and Porthos wouldn’t want you to do something so heroic, but also so stupid.”

D’Artagnan felt a shiver running down his back. It was unusual to hear so much emotion in Athos’ voice, but apparently, the past few months had changed them all.  
Constance’s face appeared in front of his inner eye. How she slapped him, how she smiled at him. How she got angry, and how she kissed him passionately. The world could be gray, but Constance always shone brighter than anything else in his eyes. And he realized that his infinite love for Constance brought in a murderous price. To restrain himself in battle.

Not that he was any less of a fighter because of that, but he knew he had to take care of himself so he could return to Constance in Paris. He only hoped that his friends, his brothers, didn’t have to pay the price.

D’Artagnan briefly closed his eyes, his lips trembling.

I hope you can forgive me! he thought, as every fiber of his being was consumed by his desire to rush to his friends’ aid. Just like they’ve always done.  
He remembered what they had been through together ever since they had been sent to the front. Even though he was sure that at the time, the friendship between him, Athos, Porthos and Aramis had already been special, it had been their bond and their faith in one another that had saved d’Artagnan’s life multiple times over the past few months. 

He remembered being held captive along with another high-rank soldier in a Spanish camp after a defeat a few months ago. It didn’t even take a day for Aramis to rescue him thanks to a skillful infiltration of the Spaniards, even though his friend had had to take more risks than d’Artagnan was fond of.  
Another time, he and a handful of men, not more than five, had been sent out as a patrol. They had been surrounded by enemy troops, and they had been merciless inferior. It had been Porthos who, wielding a broadsword on horseback, had surprised the attackers and protected the injured d’Artagnan with his own body and savage determination until Athos arrived with help.

But he knew that Athos was right. And he also knew that Athos probably had to restrain himself just as much as d’Artagnan to avoid an open attack.

“Tell me your plan,” d’Artagnan murmured determinedly, fixing his gaze on Athos. He asked the older man to come up with a maneuver, and confronted him again with the realization that all the responsibility lay on Athos’ shoulders, but it was Athos who had held him back. 

Athos looked at the battlefield and sheer terror was written all over his face. 

“We have to be coordinated,” he said, swallowing hard and motioning d’Artagnan to go back inside. 

“Athos,” d’Artagnan said. Athos looked back on him once more, and d’Artagnan could almost feel the burden of the captain on his shoulders. 

D’Artagnan forced a smile.

“Aramis and Porthos would be miffed if you underestimate their abilities.”

Athos gave a dry, humorless laugh.

“Yes. You’re probably right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athos' Pov coming next. I will probably upload it this weekend.


	3. Athos

The moment he had realized that he had probably sent Aramis and Porthos towards their own doom, it had felt as if a knife pierced his heart. Guilt and horror swept over him, but he tried to hide it behind his Captain’s façade, because he felt the eyes of his men on him.

But d’Artagnan was right. Damn, the two would be miffed when they learned that Athos had put so little faith in them. At least that’s what he kept telling himself. He now grabbed his younger companion by the shoulder and dragged him back to the house. D’Artagnan struggled, but reluctantly gave way.   
Inside, Athos slammed the door shut and leaned against it. The looks of all the men on him didn’t make it much easier. 

They had to act. They were here to take out the cannons. They still had to do that.

“D’Artagnan, get the boxes from the cellar up here.”

D’Artagnan looked at him in confusion.

“That’s dangerous, Athos, what if…”

“That’s an order!” Athos interrupted coldly and d’Artagnan put up an arrogant face instead of feeling hurt by his friend’s rude manner. “We need to get their attention, perhaps distract them a little from Porthos and Aramis. We can use these boxes to take out the cannons, putting the gunners out of action will not be enough!” Athos added.

D’Artagnan still didn’t follow his orders. He stared at Athos in disbelief.

“You want to place the gunpowder at the cannons? Are you insane?”

Athos just shrugged and ordered two musketeers to finally get the damn boxes upstairs. D’Artagnan stepped closer to his friend and looked at him carefully, as if to question the Captain’s sanity. 

“If they hit one of the boxes before we can place them, it’s going to end badly,” d’Artagnan said, apparently assuming Athos had not thought it through. 

“Correct.”

“The risk is too high.”

Athos sighed, his nerves strained badly. But that was not just d’Artagnan’s fault. The last few days had worn them out, and it all had led to this confrontation.   
“We try to get some of the boxes out of here. When our men begin to place the powder, someone will stay here and take care of the remaining gunpowder. That will distract them and steer them in this direction.”

D’Artagnan raised a questioning eyebrow, his eyes flickering here and then to the door, full of thirst for action.

“Who would be crazy enough to stay here and take care of this distraction?” he finally asked, his voice nervous.

Athos narrowed his eyes at the question. He had thought that was obvious. It took a few moments until realization hit d’Artagnan. He made a skeptical sound.

“Listen, Athos, I know you and the other two think I’m reckless, but I really don’t have a death wish.”

Athos shrugged slightly, his face showing nothing of the unease he felt inside.

“Who was that again, who wanted to storm blindly into a battle he cannot win?” he grumbled. Then he added: “If somebody can do it, it’s you. It’s not like it’s your first time.”

D’Artagnan still didn’t look very convinced, so Athos continued.

“Listen, I know it’s dangerous. I know it’s risky. But if we don’t do anything, we’ve fed Porthos, Aramis and their entire troop to the cannons. And I’m not planning on letting that happen,” he growled.

D’Artagnan lowered his eyes. “All right, then we should…” But that’s all he managed to say. Gérard and Nicourt, who Athos had ordered to inspect the cellar, rushed up the narrow staircase, yelling loudly, and making violent movements with their hands.

“Out!” Gérard bellowed and Athos noticed the panic in his wide-open eyes and immediately gave the order to leave the building. Where most people would’ve fled ruthlessly and chaotically, Athos’ group of men was way too disciplined, and they left the building quickly and orderly. 

Athos went last when he could be sure everyone else was outside. Just as he had brought some distance between himself and the wooden door, he lunged forward at d’Artagnan’s bellowed warning. 

Not a second too late. 

A deafening bang, drowning even the thunder of the cannons, stunned the night. 

The force of the exploding gunpowder threw Athos and few of his men forward, and they felt a wave of hot air the wind blew over them. For a moment, Athos lay in the mud and grass, his arm drawn protectively over his head as it rained down splinters and boulders. His ears were filled with dull noises, cannon fire, cries of men suffering from enormous pain, and other men shouting orders. 

Athos finally dared to take down his arm and in his slightly blurred vision, he was able to make out the outstretched hand of d’Artagnan. 

Athos seized his hand and the younger man pulled him onto his knees, where Athos leaned on his sword and looked at the flaming pile of wood that had been their shelter moments earlier. The fire devoured the wood and turned bright orange as the top of the flames whizzed almost white into the night, creating the illusion of lightning flashing through the black night.

D’Artagnan stood beside him, and he stared at the fire with a mixture of shock and resignation. 

“So much for the plan then,” he commented flatly.

Slowly but surely, the energy returned to Athos, and he pushed himself up from the floor and looked around for Gérard and Nicourt, hoping they could provide him with an explanation for what they had just experienced. Gérard lay on his back not far away, panting, and Athos stumbled towards him, offering him a hand.   
The musketeer gratefully accepted the help and Athos pulled him to his feet. 

“What was that?” Athos asked immediately, examining Gérard with an intense stare. 

Gérard ran his free hand over his striking face and stubbled chin, clearly trying to gather his thoughts. Nicourt wasn’t much of a help either, since Athos now noticed him behind Gérard, where he was squirming on the ground, growling and trying to regain his breath. Another musketeer was leaning over and taking care of him.   
Finally, Gérard spoke, though his eyes could not be diverted from the bright inferno behind Athos. 

“We’ve found underground passages, Athos.” He did not address him with his title, but Athos did not mind at all. After all, before he became the Captain, he had been   
only a musketeer, and besides his current command, he still didn’t like to put himself above others. 

“Passages?” d’Artagnan repeated to Athos’ left.

Gérard nodded eagerly. “The Spaniards had these buildings,” and he pointed towards the three abandoned houses that were scattered all around the burning pile of wood, “provided with underground passages, connecting the different cellars.”

He shook his head as if to get rid of this thought.

“Oh, hell no, they were probably there before. Anyway, we came across two Spaniards who were just about to change the house through one of these passages. As soon as they spotted us, they yelled something in Spanish before Nicourt and I were able to silence them. But I saw how the fuses were lit. They were prepared for us, Athos.”

D’Artagnan beside him took a deep breath.

“That was either a trap, or a very extreme safety measure.”

Gérard looked into his Captain’s eyes now. 

“The fuses were well hidden, we saw them too late. I ask for forgiveness, Sir.” Now, Gérard no longer spoke to Athos, his brother-in-arms, but to Athos, his commander.

Athos just shook his head. 

“Don’t worry, Gérard. I haven’t seen any signs of it either. It’s not your fault.”

Gérard nodded, but continued to hang his shoulders in shame.

Athos’ gaze swept from the flaming mountain over the whole area. It was still very dark, even though the flames contributed a little light, the smoke accompanying it obscured their visions. But the sounds, the roaring and the unmistakable drumming of boots on earth spoke volumes.

“Well, they’ve noticed us, that’s for sure,” d’Artagnan said, tugging his pistol out of the holster.

“We don’t have any gunpowder left to destroy their cannons, if necessary,” Athos replied.

D’Artagnan looked at him impatiently, as if awaiting the order he craved for the entire night. Athos surrendered to the look of his friend and made a dismissive gesture that d’Artagnan interpreted rightly as agreement.

“Everyone to me!” he shouted, lifting his sword up in the air before walked up to face the multitude of enemies who undoubtedly marched in their direction. 

Athos was about to draw his sword to prevent d’Artagnan from doing anything rash in his exuberant drive, but Gérard held him back by the arm.

“Capt…I mean Athos,” he stammered awkwardly and blinked several times, “I ask for permission to search the other houses for alcohol with a handful of men.”

Athos already wanted to grunt a harsh command, but he paused.

“Why?”

Gérard remained calm.

“The racks for most of these cannons are made of wood. Flammable alcohol could help us destroy them.”

Athos understood. And he cursed for not having come up with the idea himself, but the fact that gunpowder had just blown up everything around him, and that he had extradited Aramis and Porthos to a fight they could not win, seemed to have clouded his clear mind a little bit.

He nodded.

“Take care!” he commanded, before he turned around with the sword in his hands to stand by d’Artagnan in the fray. He found his young comrade in the smoke, his men lined up, and the muskets ready to fire. 

D’Artagnan raised a hand to give a signal, while Athos’ eyes wandered over the assembled men. Something wasn’t right, a feeling that didn’t let go of him. Gérard, Nicourt, and three other men were gone to take care of the alcohol and the cannons, and yet, Athos had the impression someone was missing.

He walked up behind one of the musketeers; an elderly man called Luc, and put a hand on his arm. The man briefly looked up into the eyes of his captain before he concentrated on aiming with his musket again, while the trampling of the approaching men became louder and louder. 

“Have you seen Sandre?” Athos asked quietly, and an ominous foreboding crept over him as Luc shrugged and shook his head. 

“Haven’t seen him since we defeated the patrol.”

Athos cursed. That had been their leak. He had already guessed it, but did not want to admit it. He had a hard time imagining that one of his musketeer brothers would actually betray him. 

But unfortunately, it made perfect sense. 

Sandre was half Spanish. Spanish mother, French father as far as Athos knew. But from what the man had gladly given away at a campfire in the evening, it became clear that he didn’t have a high opinion about his father.

Aramis also had connections to Spain, but everyone in the regiment knew that it was mostly confined to the language. He was loyal to France, and that loyalty was unshakeable. No one in the regiment would ever dare to question that.

Sandre, on the other hand, had always been different. He had always told stories about his relatives near the French border, and how beautiful it is there whenever he had visited them. He had become a musketeer due to his father’s wishes, and although Athos always felt like Sandre enjoyed his life in the service of the King, the musketeer seemed to have changed ever since the situation with Spain escalated.

Athos had given him the choice to stay in Paris, so he would not have to fight at the front, because he had suspected something back then already. But Sandre had insisted on coming along, shouting at Athos angrily if he really dared to question his loyalty. 

Under different circumstances, Athos might’ve felt sorry. The man’s loyalty was obviously torn, and Athos had put him in an unfair and merciless situation. But he had betrayed them, and thanks to him, Aramis and Porthos were embroiled in a hopeless battle. At least that’s what Athos chose to believe as long as he could not rediscover Sandre among his men.

A sudden roar tore him out of his thoughts, and he spotted a troop of Spanish infantry leaping out of the thick smoke. D’Artagnan lowered his hand and Athos’ men let the muskets thunder through the night. Shortly after, everyone drew their swords and moved into action, Athos and d’Artagnan at the head of the group.  
With his parrying dagger, Athos caught the sword blow of a small, but nimble man who ducked insanely fast under Athos’ counterattack. Seconds later, the Captain felt somebody kicking his leg from behind and he lost his balance for a split second, but then he hit back with his elbow. Hard. 

He heard a satisfying crack of bones meeting bones, and as he turned around, he saw the bloody nose of his opponent. Athos took advantage of the moment and attacked with a quick succession of sword strokes, which the man was barely able to catch.

Athos then managed to grab his arm and bend it out so far that the man dropped his sword in pain, before Athos ended the fight with his own sword.  
What he sensed next sent shivers down his back. Out of the thick smoke, only lit lightly by the burning house, he was able to hear the thundering of hooves.

Athos heard d’Artagnan shout a warning in his direction as the figure on a warhorse became visible and clearly charged towards Athos. At the last second he tore his sword upwards and caught the blow, which the rider, leaning sideways out of the saddle, sent down on him. Steel clashed on steel, and his sword protected him from the enemy’s blade, but the force of the speed of the horse knocked Athos off his feet. 

The air was knocked out of him as he landed on the ground but he quickly propped up on his arms. Frantically, he looked around, in order not to lose sight of the rider. Judging from the uniform and the splendor of the horse, Athos guessed that this was a Spanish officer. 

But, as Athos determined next, a Spanish officer who was apparently not a particularly good rider. As he rode past Athos, the horse ran up to the still burning house. The animal reared up in front of the fire and let out a bloodcurdling sound as a bullet grazed his left foreleg. 

Athos turned his head to the left and saw d’Artagnan lowering his still smoking pistol before returning to his own fight. He had probably tried to hit the rider himself, but that was a difficult thing to do in this chaos. Someone who had so much passion for horse-riding and such an understanding for these animals like d’Artagnan would not shoot it on purpose.

The horse landed back on all four, but immediately rose up again to get rid of its rider. Then, it escaped the battlefield in a somewhat limping trot, the Spanish curses of the commander in its back. 

The man scrambled out of the dirt and saw Athos, who rushed towards him, just in time to block the musketeer’s attack with a knife. The Spaniard eventually rose from a kneeling position to full size, and Athos could immediately imagine what kind of commander he had in front of him. 

If it wasn’t for the uniform, Athos would’ve thought him a street thug or the leader of a group of robbers. He towered a good head over Athos and now used his broadsword to parry Athos’ following attacks. 

Porthos would’ve been furious that Athos took away such an equal opponent for him. But right now, this was a life and death fight.   
The force of the counterstroke caused Athos to stumble occasionally, but what he was defeated by physical strength, he made up for with skill and strategy in sword fighting. As the sword of the Spaniard clashed down again, Athos didn’t parry as usual, but lunged to the side and managed to plunge his parrying dagger sideways through the thigh of his opponent. 

The man roared indignantly and swung his sword menacingly. If Athos had not dropped to the ground the last second, it would have cost him his head. Literally.   
Before the giant could lift his sword again, Athos landed a strike on both calves, which were only protected by the thin straps holding the shin pads from behind. No armor that was particularly well suited for a duel.

The man was forced to his knees and Athos dodged again so he could regain his balance on the other side of the man. He ended the fight with one stab of his sword without further hesitation. 

Athos straightened up again, gasping for air, and suddenly he found himself side by side with d’Artagnan again. The ranks of their enemies cleared a little and the two of them, surrounded by musketeers, had the chance to catch their breath.

Out of the corner of his eye, Athos saw Gérard and Nicourt, running out of one of the houses carrying alcohol and heading for the cannons. 

D’Artagnan next to him shook his head in disbelief as he reloaded his pistol hastily.

“What are they doing?” he shouted over the battle noise.

“They’re drowning our worries in alcohol,” Athos replied dryly, getting rid of an assailing enemy by tearing d’Artagnan’s pistol out of his hands and firing the shot. 

“We should…” d’Artagnan began.

“Accompany them?” Athos interrupted and without waiting for an answer, he followed Gérard and Nicourt towards the centre of the current battlefield. He heard d’Artagnan shouting something to the other men before he followed Athos without hesitation. They slowly fought their way through, barely able to get forward five meters without meeting a sword that sought their blood or stopping abruptly as a salvo of musket shots ripped through the ground in front of them. 

Finally, one of the cannons was in sight, and it was just being fired. Athos watched as the gunner later fell victim to Nicourt’s sword, while Gérard poured the flammable alcohol all around the cannon. The rack was made of less wood than they had anticipated. A totally wooden frame could not carry the weight of the tube and made the mobility of the cannon extremely difficult. The wheels on the other hand were made out of solid, resilient wood, and Athos hoped the fire would finally silence this roaring artillery monster. 

There was a loud bang as the cannon ball that had been fired found its target somewhere in the distance. Then, Nicourt motioned everyone to leave, and they quickly brought some distance between themselves and the cannon. It needed a good amount of luck that no Spaniard seemed to pay enough attention to stop them, and the next time Athos turned around, he saw a small fire rendering the cannon unusable. 

With a quick hand-signal, he ordered Gérard, Nicourt and the others to continue their task. 

He quickly rushed to aid d’Artagnan, who was struggling under the stranglehold of a brawny-looking Spaniard. Athos got rid of him and quickly pulled his comrade back on his feet.

“Come!” Athos just said as they advanced deeper into the battle, parrying attacks and performing maneuvers they had so often trained back in Paris. But both of their attentions were divided. While Athos kept one eye on his opponent, the other searched the area for Porthos, Aramis, or anyone else of their group. He just had to know they had survived.

It was d’Artagnan who, at some point, grabbed Athos’ arm and pointed into the direction of the still-burning house, which still was the only real source of light in this black night. 

The sight he got was almost grotesque, but Athos felt like a huge weight was taken off his shoulders. In front of the flames, there were the silhouettes of two men. 

One was tall, with only one elongated dagger in his hand, and punching everything and everyone that came too close to him. Behind him, the other man knelt on the ground, reloading two firearms in a constant motion, only occasionally reaching for his sword to defend himself. 

D’Artagnan also made a distinctly relieved sound and even Athos could not prevent the hint of a grin on his face.

“Stubborn bastards,” he grumbled, but wasn’t able to hide the glee in his voice. 

And d’Artagnan and Athos hurried to stand side by side with Porthos and Aramis.


	4. Porthos

If they had initially believed that they had the element of surprise on their side and could overpower the Spaniards, they had quickly been forced to realize that they had run straight into a trap. 

Porthos had experienced quite a bit the past few months and in his whole life in the regiment. But if that damned artillery destroyed his plans one more time, he would crush these cursed things with his bare hands. 

It had ended up in chaos, and his group had been forced to split up in order to escape the cannon fire. He and Aramis on the other hand had stayed together, almost naturally. And now they were here, encircled by enemies and without a way out. 

Porthos grimaced.

He had lost his beloved broadsword, when exactly, he could not remember. He did not remember much of what happened anyway. He recalled being separated from Aramis, thanks to a cannonball, and shortly after, he had been attacked by three men at once.   
The next thing he could remember was Aramis who had stood halfway over him, shouting his name, not looking at him but grimly fending off any man who came too close to him. 

Porthos had regained consciousness with an aching head and a stab wound in his shoulder. But thanks to his rapidly building adrenaline, he had let himself being pulled back on his feet by Aramis. 

Side by side, they had then fought their way through the hell of the battlefield. Aramis had told him that one of the houses where Athos had planned to go to with his troop had exploded. Porthos could not find out whether it had been a deliberate action or not, but they had no time for details anyway.   
The Spaniards should not have been prepared. At least not to that extent. Porthos was sure someone had betrayed the musketeers. But right now, he needed to concentrate. He stood back to back with Aramis, surrounded by enemies, armed with nothing more but a dagger and his god-given strength. Aramis knelt behind him   
in a visibly twisted position because his right leg could not carry his weight. 

His comrade had been dealing with a single man of the cavalry at one time. Although Aramis had been able to pull him down the horse with a tight grip, he had been overpowered from behind at the same time. Porthos had rushed to his aid, but he had not been able to prevent Aramis from receiving the gaping wound above his knee.

Somewhere, Porthos had been able to spot a fire around a cannon, and he hoped that this could be a sign for Athos and d’Artagnan. 

Once he and Aramis had come no further, they had decided thanks to their silent communication to contest their hopefully not last fight here. Aramis was occupied with Porthos’ pistol as well as his own, while Porthos used his large body to protect his friend in case of emergency, while warding off everyone who came within his reach.

He was angry. Angry at the cannons, angry at those thirsty for his blood. Angry at whoever had betrayed them all and fed them to the guns. A small part of him was furious that there still was no trace of Athos or d’Artagnan, but his common sense was stronger and gave him the reasons why they weren’t here. 

Damn, he had told Athos that splitting up was a bad idea.

The wound in his shoulder threw waves of pain through his entire upper body, and his head throbbed uncomfortably, but his unbridled anger dampened all those sensations and made him fight like a berserk.

The puffs of smoke from the fire cleared a little bit, and Porthos narrowed his eyes only to see the musket aimed at him in the distance. 

“Aramis!” he shouted distinctively and his friend changed positions with him in a not-so-elegant manner, firing his pistol just in time to prevent the musket from being used and finding its target. 

As much as Porthos loved fighting, as much as he liked to be tested, every fiber of his being was being consumed by the desire for a cup of wine, a hot meal and a warm bed. It was just enough. 

They had survived the scheming and plotting of the cardinal. They had saved France from the hands of Rochefort. They had convicted traitors, they had been imprisoned, and they had hunted criminals all over the country on behest of the King. 

But no one had been able to prepare them for this. And in situations like these, Porthos made it his task to protect his men, especially his friends. It might be selfish, but it was part of his survival instinct. He and Aramis were used to fighting together and forming a unity. 

Even though they had previously led the attack to protect the King and the country from the enemy, one now only fought for the man standing at one’s side.

“Porthos!” he heard Aramis’ voice from behind. His tone wasn’t panicked, but very insistent, and Porthos turned around to see a Spaniard swinging his sword at Aramis, who was still busy reloading his weapons. 

In a single movement, Porthos threw his dagger, his last weapon, at the man and saved Aramis, who could barely escape with his wounded leg from ending up on the other end of the Spaniard’s sword.

Porthos now felt something, or rather someone, approach from the side, and he was about to threaten him with his fist as he recognized the two figured hurrying towards them. 

“About time!” Porthos growled as a greeting. 

Even over the battle noise, he heard Athos snort scornfully.

D’Artagnan on the other hand laughed audibly.

“And I thought you like a good challenge!”

Before Porthos could answer, Aramis jumped in from behind with a dry remark.

“Well, what can I say. We prefer that there is a chance to keep our heads.” Shortly after, they heard the sound of one of Aramis’ pistols being fired.

Porthos felt Athos’ gaze rest on him, and he knew the Captain was considering giving him one of his weapons, since Porthos seemed to be unarmed. As if to answer the unspoken question, Porthos grabbed a hostile man and knocked him out with sheer manpower. 

Athos left that uncommented.

The four of them resembled a rock in the chaos of the battle. From time to time, muskets thundered through the night, the fire hissed and men screamed in anger or agony. 

But it was another sound that drew Porthos’ attention now. The thundering of hooves. But not from the isolated Spanish cavalry soldiers. The earth trembled under the number of animals galloping towards the battlefield.

Porthos turned his head to look north. A large horde of riders galloped down the slope and headed towards them. Frantically, Porthos searched for a sign, an indication to whose side these riders belonged. 

Finally, he discovered a standard-bearer, and he was carrying a simple, white flag. Without the cross of Burgundy. So it was a drapeau blanc. Relieved, Porthos lowered his arm. 

“General Lantier!” he shouted at his companions over the roaring noise. 

Behind him, he heard Aramis laugh, but the relief was evident.

“Does he want to claim the glory for this battle as well?” the marksman yelled, but no one was unhappy about the arrival of support. 

Athos on the other hand turned to Aramis, leaving it to Porthos to protect him from a sword in the back. 

“Aramis. Do you see the cart back there?”

Porthos followed Athos’ gaze and looked at one of the transport carts with which the Spaniards were transporting their supplies. He noticed the boxes next to the ammunition, and couldn’t help but grin. He saw Athos pulling a musket from a body in the dirt and holding it out to Aramis. 

“Can you hit that?”

Porthos stifled a smile. 

“Can I hit that?” Aramis repeated insulted before snatching the musket out of Athos’ hands. “I hope you are joking, Captain.”

Aramis deliberately addressed Athos with his title, Porthos noticed. They liked to do that to annoy Athos whenever he did not contribute to the mood with his broody and discontented behavior. 

“You’re injured, Aramis,” Athos countered imperturbably while he threw his dagger at an upcoming enemy. 

Porthos couldn’t see Aramis, and he was too busy to look, but he could vividly imagine the sour look his friend was for sure giving the captain right now.

“Do I need my leg to shoot?” Aramis asked and Porthos saw Athos rolling his eyes. 

“D’Artagnan, I need your help!” Aramis demanded and the youngest of them froze during the chokehold he had one enemy in. 

“You need me to fire a musket?” he asked in disbelief.

“I have nothing to steady the weapon here. Just lie down in front of me and shut up for a moment.”

D’Artagnan looked offended, but complied.

“Cover us!” he said to Porthos and Athos, before he lay down in front of Aramis so the marksman could prepare the musket. 

Porthos and Athos circled around them protectively, making sure they were not being attacked, but the number of enemies had diminished since the General’s support had arrived.

If Aramis managed to hit the cart, that could be the last step towards their victory over the Spaniards, and they would retreat before this ended in a total massacre. At least Porthos hoped so as he watched Lantier’s men sweep over the Spanish infantry like a hurricane. 

“Aramis, come on and get done with it!” Porthos growled impatiently. 

“Patience is a virtue, my friend!” Aramis replied in a disgustingly soothing voice, at least in Porthos’ opinion, and judging by a quick glance, his friend had everything in position. He only had to aim. 

Looking at the cart however, Porthos realized what prevented Aramis from shooting. It’s not like it was a large distance, but a group of Lantier’s man was too close to the cart. Porthos bent down, picking up one of Aramis’ pistols and getting rid of one attacker.

“Porthos!” Aramis voice sounded from behind. “If you want to keep your leg unscathed, I suggest you take a step aside.”

Porthos cursed and quickly stepped sideways towards Athos, and moments later, he watched Aramis use the musket.

The bang came a few moments delayed, at least in Porthos’ dizzy brain, but Aramis’ aim had not failed them. The cart went up in flames, and slowly Porthos began to wonder whether that was all they had achieved this night. To set things on fire.

But it had the desired effect. The remaining Spanish troops fled. “Retreat!”-shouts were heard all over the battlefield and the men stopped fighting and started to run.   
The General’s cavalry chased them westward for a while, but at some point, the enemy’s forced managed to escape. 

The silence that now settled over the battlefield was murderous. After all the noise, all the screaming and the thunder of the guns, Porthos was convinced that he now really and truly had become deaf. He inspected the battlefield with his eyes, not moving a tiny bit, and from the lack of movement from the other three, he was sure they were doing the same. 

With the constant fire now finally being over, the smoke, which lay like a shadow over the field, cleared a little bit and they could see the reddish light of the rising sun. 

The ground was soaked with blood in many spots, the earth torn apart by cannon and musket balls, almost grotesquely decorated with bodies and broken weapons.   
Some men were already standing up, other didn’t move. The remains of burning cannon racks occasionally provided another source of light in the slowly brightening morning. 

Porthos’ eyes were burning, from the smoke as well as from the realization of what they had just been through. It wasn’t their first battle, it wasn’t their second. But it also hasn’t been the easiest, and Porthos felt like the longer they fought at the front, the harder it became.   
Many men had talked of indifference, when this life had slowly become their routine. But it was always difficult for Porthos. He knew why he was doing what he was doing, and he knew his three friends felt the same way, but the only thing he wanted to cheer for at the end of the day, or, in this case, the beginning of the day, was the fact that he and his friends had survived.

The mantle of silence that had enveloped them eventually loosened, and slowly but surely, the sounds of screaming men and frightened, roaring horses reached his ears again. As the adrenaline in Porthos’ veins slowly faded, the stabbing pain in his shoulder, as well as the throbbing in his skull, returned. He took an unsteady step forward and felt like everything was spinning.

A firm grip on his upper arm held him upright, and Porthos looked up into Athos’ cold and pale eyes.

“I have to report to the general. Can you take care of the situation?”

'Taking care of the situation' had become Athos’ standard phrase to ask them to look for the wounded and help out everyone who needed it. Porthos noticed Athos skeptically scanning his bloodied shoulder, but Porthos gently slapped Athos and nodded his head into the direction of the general. 

“Go.”

Athos bowed his head in gratitude and hurried towards the general, while Porthos turned to his two remaining comrades.

Aramis had reached a half-kneeling, half-standing position, resting his body on the musket he had rammed into the ground. He was quite pale due to the blood loss from his knee injury, but he seemed to control his pain. 

Porthos was about to bend over to help his friend, but Aramis declined.

“You can barely stand…on your own,” he said, giving Porthos the hint of a smile. 

Porthos answered with an approving grunt and looked around to search for d’Artagnan. The young man stood with his back to them, seemingly about to go after Athos. 

“Hey, d’Artagnan!” Aramis attracted his attention as their young friend seemed to have forgotten about the limited mobility of his comrades for a moment. D’Artagnan turned and raised a questioning eyebrow until his gaze fell on Aramis, who was breathing hard from the effort of holding himself upright. 

“A little respect for the older ones, if you don’t mind,” Aramis panted, a soft, humorless laugh escaping his lips. He held out a hand to d’Artagnan. 

The Gascon, embarrassed that he didn’t come up with the offer himself, ran back to his two friends, grabbed Aramis by the arm gently and pulled him to his feet, before putting Aramis’ arm around his shoulder. The two hobbled ahead, while Porthos, whose vision was still slightly blurred from his head injury and whose shoulder still hurt like hell, trudged after them. 

“D’Artagnan!” Porthos said, looking at the musketeer through heavy eyelids. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to take care of the situation on your own.” As if to underline his statement, he swayed on the spot and blinked several times to dispel the dizziness. 

D’Artagnan raised an eyebrow and stopped abruptly which made Aramis curse and complain, and drained all remaining color from his face. 

“Did you really think I would take you two on an expedition across the battlefield now?”

Porthos looked startled. 

“Well…uh….yes?”

D’Artagnan snorted in disbelief.

“I’ll take Gérard and a few of the other men with me. You two…,” he said, and pulled up Aramis, who was barely holding some of his weight on his own. “You two will see a medic as soon as possible.”

Porthos opened his mouth to say that this could wait, but d’Artagnan silenced him.

“Don’t even try to argue with me Porthos. Come on.”

-MMMM-

 

The sun was already high in the sky when Athos joined them again. Porthos and Aramis had been taken to the camp, which was placed down in the woods, and their wounds had been taken care of. Even though it had taken them a little longer than expected. Aramis had insisted that the others were being treated first. Then, he had personally grabbed Porthos and looked after his injuries. To Porthos displeasure, Aramis afterwards had helped treating the others, which ended up with him collapsing on a bench due to exhaustion and Porthos cursing him.

But that was their usual way of dealing with the aftermath, and situations like these were no news to Porthos. D’Artagnan had arrived later with Gérard and the others, listing the victims which this battle had demanded.

Now, with the Spanish threat out of reach for a while, they were sitting outside, letting the faint autumn sun shine on their skin. 

D’Artagnan sat cross-legged on the ground, in front of the campfire with the remains of a chicken that they had just eaten. Aramis, whose leg was wrapped in a broad, though slightly blood-soaked bandage, sat on a broken tree stump. The rest of the tree probably had fallen victim to the guns last night. Aramis’ color looked a lot healthier, and even though Porthos knew each one of them was still dealing with the events of last night, it was good to sit with his friends and have a casual conversation. 

Porthos was sitting on the floor, leaning against one of the supply carts, and now looked up to Athos, who just jumped off from a horse, wherever he got it from. 

“And?” Aramis asked, before unconcernedly returning his interest to his cup of wine.

“Did the General curse the men again for incompetence?” d’Artagnan added in a bitter voice.

Athos shook his head.

“Not even Lantier has such a low opinion about the worth of the lives of these men that he would dare to treat them disrespectfully now.”

Athos sank on the hard ground with a sigh and took the cup of wine d’Artagnan held in his hands. The younger’s protest was drowned out by Porthos’ question.

“How did Lantier know about this?”

Athos snorted.

“Well, it was him who sent us here. He expected my report two days ago, but how were we supposed to get away from here? So he thought he’ll come and check it out himself.”

Athos ran a hand over his face and beard, a little upset. 

“He did not curse the men, but of course he never misses an opportunity to let out his anger on the four of us. He called us incompetent leaders, and that we can be glad he arrived in time.”

“What a shithead,” Porthos growled indignantly.

“Unfortunately, he is right,” Aramis threw in bitterly, and started to clean his pistols. He looked up again when he seemed to feel the three pairs of eyes resting on him. “Well, you know, the part about the victory we probably wouldn’t have achieved without the arrival of the cavalry.”

D’Artagnan and Porthos grunted in agreement.

“So, what’s the plan?” Porthos asked, knowing it was a question nobody had dared yet to speak out.

Athos carefully looked between him and Aramis.

“New formation of the troops. The injured will be brought back to Paris as soon as possible.”

Porthos nodded, acknowledging the statement. Athos didn’t seem to be finished yet and he cleared his throat nervously.

“That also concerns the two of you.”

His gaze again wandered over Aramis and Porthos.

Aramis froze in the middle of his pistol-cleansing motion and frowned.

“We…,” he began but Porthos interrupted him.

“…are certainly not going back to Paris.” It wasn’t easy to say that, but as much as Porthos longed for his rooms in the capital, his home was where his brothers were.

D’Artagnan seemed to be on Athos’ side, at least superficially. 

“Look, your group really has been through a lot last night. You both did not get out of it unharmed and that…”

“…is my fault,” Athos finished, receiving nothing but surprised stares in response.

“How exactly are Spanish cannons your fault?” Aramis wanted to know and stared at the captain blatantly serious.

“No, not that,” Athos replied, making a dismissive gesture. “But the affair with Sandre. I should’ve known. I could have foreseen that.”

“Sure, you could have,” d’Artagnan retorted, rolling his eyes. “If he had announced his betrayal aloud.”

“But he didn’t,” Porthos added, giving Athos a look of sympathy.

“It’s not your fault, Athos,” Aramis put in calmly. “None of us could have foreseen this. But we survived. It’s over.”

Athos grimly stared at the ground, but the corners of his mouth twisted into a crooked smile.

“Alright, so…,” d’Artagnan said and cleared his throat. “Paris?”

He looked back and forth between Porthos and Aramis. Porthos, on the other hand, searched for Aramis’ gaze. His decision was made, but he still needed to see the icy resolve in Aramis’ eyes again before he verbally announced the answer.

“Not without you two.”

Aramis snorted in agreement. “You’re not shaking us off so easily,” he added.

“In Paris, you can recover safely,” Athos said, his gaze absent-mindedly focused on the fire. “And you could be working as the King’s personal guard again.”

“And bore me to death again at the parades?” Porthos shook his head. “No, thanks.”

“Besides, who would make sure d’Artagnan doesn’t move his ass out of the damned cover when I’m not here?” Aramis added with a grin, and d’Artagnan let out an   
agonized moan.

“You’re not giving me a break, are you?”

Aramis raised an eyebrow.

“You almost ran into your certain doom. Alone,” Aramis replied dryly.

A mischievous smile spread over d’Artagnan’s face. “Are you saying you wouldn’t have run after me to protect me from this fate?”

“I did not have to, after all, I saved you from getting out of that pit in the first place.” Aramis granted him a dull but teasing grin and Athos only rolled his eyes in exasperation.

D’Artagnan, who was used to these kinds of exchanges with Porthos and Aramis, only leaned over to Aramis to give him a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“So, you don’t want to go to Paris?” Athos asked again, apparently ignoring the previous conversation.

“Sure, I’d love to,” Aramis grumbled. “If you two come along as well.”

“That’s not possible,” Athos replied.

“Then, you’ll be stuck with us for another while,” Porthos said and d’Artagnan faked an annoyed sigh, and even Athos smiled relieved at his cup of wine.  
Of course they were safer in Paris. But each of them preferred to know where the others were and how they were doing. In secret, Porthos knew that Athos and d’Artagnan were glad they stayed.

“You have no idea how glad I am that we’re all sitting together here and today,” Aramis murmured again more seriously.

“That was definitely too close for my taste,” Porthos sighed.

“But all of us are here,” Athos said, looking up. “And I think we owe it to each other.”

Porthos gave a barking laugh.

“That’s out of question.”

“Hey, d’Artagnan!” Aramis said, handing the young man a full cup of wine after his first one fell victim to Athos’ thirst. 

Aramis then reached out and held up his own glass.

“One for all?”

The other three leaned over and they slammed their cups together.

“And all for one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it. I'll continue publishing my older works on here soon.   
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed.


End file.
